


Forget the Day

by mrecookies



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Episode titles as songs, F/M, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 14:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrecookies/pseuds/mrecookies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A band competition is being held in Beacon Hills College. The Hunters, Halefire, and Stiles's band face off against each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forget the Day

**Author's Note:**

> 30 day writing challenge, round 2, prompt 26: musician AU. I wrote and then got lost oops. IDK IDK. Song titles = Teen Wolf ep titles. The lyrics that Erica sings belong to me and I know they're crap but at least they're only two lines.

Stiles wades through the crowd, managing to balance two cups of beer without sloshing too much onto the ground and other people's hair. "Scott!" he yells, as he reaches their spot on the field. "Dude, quit macking with our _competition_ and drink up."

Allison punches him lightly on the shoulder and kisses Scott one last time, and Stiles pretends to retch onto the grass. "Good luck, boys," she says, winking and grabbing her jacket. She brushes off some dirt from her arrow-patterned skirt, and walks off. "You'll need it."

He cuffs his best friend's head, scowling with little heat as Scott grins sheepishly up at him, and grabs his cup, downing the alcohol in a few gulps. "Lydia's going to kill you," he says to Stiles, as if Stiles doesn't already know that the maelstrom that keeps their band together is about to descend on them with murder in her eyes.

Stiles swallows the slightly bitter drink down. "It's okay," he says, grimacing, because _god_ —cheap beer is really, _really_ not worth it. "She's still about a minute away, and I'll be buzzed before she can sink her well-manicured nails in me."

"You're such a lightweight, dude," Scott says, chuckling as he surveys the crowd. "Incoming, Stilinksi."

"Shit." Stiles scrambles to throw the cups away as far as possible, because Lydia has her withering glare on full blast. It takes him back to the visceral memory of them being late for practice—their first and last time—and watching in fear as Lydia demonstrated quite creatively what she could do with pieces of plastic. "Lydia, my goddess, I prostrate myself before you—"

"Shut up, Stiles," she hisses, tossing her red hair behind her shoulder and pursing her lips. "You don't need me to tell you that shouldn't be drinking, because you get all flirty onstage when you do, but fine. I don't know why, but people like to see you grinding against all of us, so there's no loss. Just make sure we _win_." Lydia proceeds to carry out her critical examination of their attire, straightening jackets and _tsk_ -ing at Scott's unruly hair before she deems them presentable.

Jackson turns up, looking impeccable despite squeezing through the mass of bodies, and Stiles immediately hates him. Stiles doesn't _really_ hate Jackson; he's cool with Jackson, even if the guy's a total asshole, because Jackson isn't that bad when you've figured out that he's scared and lonely deep inside. Not that Stiles is _ever_ going to mention analyzing Jackson Whittemore. It's just—he's the barely-tolerable jock that makes Stiles's heart clench in envy whenever he and Lydia share a kiss, but he's in their band, and he's civil to Stiles and Scott, and it's cool. It _is_.

"Talked to the organizers. We're going third," Jackson says, slinging an arm around Lydia's shoulders. She wriggles free to do her makeup. "The Hunters are up first, then some new guys with a shitty name— Halefire, really?—and we'll go on just before the Alpha Pack closes."

It's a short gig. Each of the top three bands in the competition has about a half hour to entertain the crowd before the real deal (their _judges_ ) comes along to finish up, and Stiles cannot wait for Alpha to wow everyone like they always do, because _god_ , Alpha's legendary in Beacon Hills College for actually becoming a legitimate band signed on to a record label and everything. Stiles remembers him and Scott thrashing about during their first Alpha concert; they'd gone home with signed wolf hats, and had stayed up writing truly _shitty_ songs inspired by the experience. Jackson found those songs during their first band meeting two years later, and Stiles has never forgiven him for (rightfully) laughing his ass off at the lyrics.

"Yeah, Allison!" Scott whoops as they make their way closer to the stage. The Hunters take their places, and Allison blows a kiss to her boyfriend before revving up the crowd. Stiles coughs and rolls his eyes, but then the drums kick in, and the guitars sound fucking amazing, and he's jumping along to 'Code Breaker' like he's never heard it a hundred times before.  


*

  
"Ladies and gentlemen," Finstock says, incongruously waving a large foam finger, "next, we have a brand new band from Beacon Hills College: Halefire!"

The Hunters exit the stage to applause and cheers, and Stiles peers over Lydia's head to watch as a quartet walks on. Derek Hale is one of them, no surprise, because _hello_ , but the other three are unusual to say the least.

"His uncle's the manager," Jackson says, glittering eyes never leaving the stage. "I heard Derek plays a mean riff."

The crowd buzzes with anticipation. Stiles focuses his gaze on the lead guitarist; Derek looks like he wants to be anywhere but there, clad in his black leather jacket and shirt, a grey tank top molded to his obvious drool-worthy abdominals. Not that Stiles is drooling _because_ of that. Those. Someone—Scott—is scarfing down a hotdog bun and he's hungry. Shit, he's doing to develop a Pavlovian response, isn't he? Stiles panics, because he's on edge and _Derek is staring at him_ , so he elbows Scott and apologizes when his best friend coughs.

Erica Reyes saunters up to the microphone and positively purrs. "Let's set this house, this house on fire," she says, grinning. The Lahey kid smirks and strikes a bass chord, sending waves of excitement through the audience. "And let it burn, burn, burn down through the wire!" She screams the last word, and Stiles's hair stands on edge as the band kicks into high gear: Boyd roars out a primal scream as he wields his drumsticks, Isaac never stops smiling as he plucks out the clever bassline, and Erica sings like she's in the throes of madness; but Stiles is fixated on Derek, who seems to come alive with the music. He stands in a shadowy corner, not in the spotlight next to Erica like all lead guitarists tend to do, but his passion is obvious, quick fingers cutting out complicated shrill notes that make Jackson scowl and applaud in envy,

Their last song is 'Lunatic', and it ends with an unearthly howl from all four members, the electric thrum earning them a standing ovation from the crowd.

"Shit," Scott breathes, "we've fucking lost," and earns himself a hard smack on the head from their redheaded leader.  


*

  
Lydia hands him a red cup filled with the good beer. "Drink," she says. "I need you to wow them with whatever weird geeky charm you've got. Your lyrics are sound, the music is awesome, so don't worry." She pats him on the head.

Sometimes, Stiles thinks, sometimes Lydia lets on that she does see through him and all his issues.

Finstock's introduction ends, and Stiles finishes the beer, burping as Scott pulls him onstage. He grins at the crowd through the shining lights, and yells incoherently when Scott shouts _"Are you ready?"_ to the audience. He picks up his bass guitar, kissing the headstock before slinging on the strap. Lydia shakes her head at him, but smiles predatorily at the crowd like she knows they're going to win in spite of Halefire's performance, and nods to Jackson.

The singer proceeds to take off his shirt before beginning their first song, 'Wolf's Bane', practically acapella, Stiles accompanying him with deep melodic bass notes and singing along. The crowd hushes as the first verse finishes, the silence stretching out for the crucial four bars before Scott hollers, shocking them into screaming as the drums kick violently in and Lydia's perfect riffs weave with Jackson's voice.

Midway through their set, the beer catches up with Stiles's adrenaline, and he starts bouncing up and down with the beat, just living in the moment as his words spill out of Jackson's mouth and over the crowd, as his music drawls out of all of them; he finds himself drawing closer to Lydia, knocking their hips together as they belt out the chorus of 'Restraint' with Jackson. He switches out his electric bass for the keyboards, easing them into a slower but still rocky sound, and sloppily blows kisses to random members of the audience, aiming one in The Hunters's and Halefire's general direction.

Lydia nods at him to finish up with Stiles's personal favorite, 'Battlefield', and he takes center stage with Jackson. It feels so intimate now, with his band members—his friends—surrounding him. Jackson soothes the crowd with his gentle rasp; Lydia's electric melody combines harshness with drowning sorrow, and Stiles's acoustic guitar hums along. He feels drunk as Scott leans against his side, tapping out a rhythmic beat on his tambourine, looking like a hippie from the late sixties with Allison's scarf around his head. Stiles places a kiss on Jackson's cheek and grins, dropping his head onto Scott's shoulder as the song sways to the end.  


*

  
The applause and cheers are thunderous, and Stiles blinks as he's pulled to stand and pushed forward as Lydia chatters into the microphone. The Alpha Pack is standing next to him, next to _Stiles_ , and they've actually _won_ , and Stiles cannot fucking _breathe_. He stammers out his thanks when the lead singer shakes his hand and tells him that 'Battlefield' is a masterpiece; there are no jokes, no run-on sentences. It's just so surreal. Allison hugs him tight when they're all in the carpark packing up, and kids that she shouldn't have wished them good luck, and shakes him gently when he doesn't respond at first.

Then it breaks. They've _won_ , and Stiles is grinning and cheering and totally spazzing out until he remembers to get Betty signed by all five members of the Alpha Pack. Michelle Howard even kisses him soundly on both cheeks before waving goodbye, and Stiles bats away Jackson's smirking face when he wolf-whistles too close.

"Hey man," Scott says, tugging at Stiles's sleeve eagerly. "Meet Derek. This is Stiles, my best friend forever, and he's like the best winner tonight!"

Stiles snorts, ruffling Scott's hair. "Dude, you're not making sense, and stop introducing me as your BFF, okay, it sounds like we're going to play tea party with your Spiderman action figures. Again." He turns away from Scott's laughing pout, and shakes Derek's hand. "Hey," he says awkwardly, because Derek is hot and _wow_. "I am the Stiles of which he speaks."

"Derek," the other guy says, unsmiling. "You were great."

"Yeah." Stiles bites down on his bottom lip. "You too. That third song? 'Fury'? That was pretty fucking amazing. Did you write that?"

"My sister did. Laura." Derek's face softens for a moment. "She's in NYU, studying the classics."

"Like Mozart?" Scott asks, and Stiles quite literally smacks a palm over his own face. "What?"

"Classics, dude, not classical music," Stiles says, sighing. "Like Ancient Greece, Rome?"

Scott looks vaguely embarrassed, but shrugs it off easily. "Whatever dude. Anyway, we're going out for dinner, so you're coming right?" He claps a hand on Derek's shoulder, oblivious to the guy's glare. "Great! I'll get Allison and Lydia and Jackson and we'll leave. Tell your band too!"

As Scott bounds away, Stiles scratches the back of his neck and grins. "Sorry about that. He's like an overenthusiastic puppy sometimes."

"A puppy." Derek arches a dark eyebrow, and Stiles should _not_ find that hot.

"Yeah, sour wolf," he says, and _oh god_. But Derek doesn't look like he's about to punch Stiles; on the contrary, the corner of his mouth quirks up, revealing sharp white teeth, and Stiles should not find that hot either.

Lydia saves him from making more inappropriate comments and _nicknames_ by waving them over impatiently. "Stiles, you can drool over Derek later. Food _now_ , and you're paying," she says, turning to Jackson.

"I hate you," Stiles hisses as he walks past her, scrambling to get into his jeep, flushing crimson. He doesn't expect Derek to get in the passenger side, and yelps when he finishes fumbling with his seatbelt when he sees Derek sitting there. "No. Get out."

"Shut up, Stiles," Derek says, actually fucking grinning with his stupid teeth and dark eyebrows and facial hair and his sweaty grey tank top clinging to his abs and _fuck_. "What Miss Martin said. Drool later, drive now."

Stiles swallows and starts the engine. He's either going to get punked or—Derek shoots him a hungry look and Stiles swallows again. _Or._


End file.
